Broken Wings
by purplepop07
Summary: "I realize that what I've done cannot be reversed. I am fighting to the death. I will take away innocent people's lives. I might even die myself... But I am not alone in this battle."  The 1st Annual Hunger Games!
1. Chapter 1: Kellen

"It's over," Ryder tells me, face buried in his hands. "Yesterday, the officials signed the Treaty of Treason."

I nearly fall out of my chair when he says this. The round wooden table wobbles as I barely save myself from keeling over right here in my kitchen. "You're kidding me."

He raises his tear-streaked face from his hands. I've always been the only person he could cry around—he is known for his seemingly emotionless temperament towards life, but I know it's all been a front ever since his parents died last year while aiding the Rebellion. He has no compassion; the only thing he's loved since his parents were publically executed on television for inciting a riot here in District 3 is the Rebellion. And now, even _that_ is taken from him.

"We didn't even get over the freaking mountains!" He cries, assaulting the freshly brewed cup of tea I made for him. The brown liquid creeps towards me as he rises from his chair, sending it flying back onto the floor. "It's a lost cause. I heard that the Capitol is requiring all of the Districts to gather in their respective center squares at noon. Says there'll be something called the 'Reaping,' but none of us know what it is yet."

I look at the silver watch (an heirloom that's been in my family since before the Disaster) fastened on my wrist and note that it is 11:47 a.m. "'Reaping?' You mean like a Harvest?"

"I don't know," Ryder says as he wipes his bloodshot eyes on the sleeve of his black mohair sweater. I stare at him expectantly and he looks right back at me, emerald eyes narrowing in a failing attempt to keep from crying.

My mother rushes into the kitchen where we sit. She must've heard the sound of Ryder's anger-fit. Since his parents died, she's taken care of him as though he was her own son, even though he could be considered a grown man (he is nineteen years old). He works hard at the factory and sneaks home some of the latest in Capitol electronics, which fascinates my mother but doesn't impress me one bit. I know how to make those electronics, not just put them together. Either way, he helps provide for us even though he doesn't live here, which is enough for him to be considered family. "What's going on here?" my mother says, sweet, nervous eyes darting around the room in search for her pseudo-son.

"It's over," I reply, even though the question wasn't directed at me.

"What?"

"The Rebellion. It's over. We are to meet at the center square at noon."

She is speechless, lips moving but no sound coming from her throat. We, too, lost people we loved in the war, a few of those people being my dad and both of my older brothers. She and I are the only ones surviving in our biological family. Ryder doesn't move to help, but I get up to comfort her. I'm good with this kind of thing—emotions, I mean. I have an exceptional talent for reading people and knowing what to say or do. Ryder, on the other hand, is so socially awkward that he might be considered about as charming as a tree.

Hand in hand, my mother and I walk to the square with Ryder flanking us. The anxious shuffling of feet and shoving of bodies show that we all have the same question: what's next? I stare up into the gray sky and button the collar of my coat up to my neck. The day is cold and dark—as are most fall days in District 3, but it seems more like evening than midday. It's fitting for the ominous mood that hangs over the entire District. Thousands of us stand with our shoulders touching each others' so closely that we are one body, despite the inevitable separation we know we and the other districts will experience at the hands of the Capitol.

The slow, careful and yet rueful steps of Mayor Harney tiptoe up the stairs to the Justice Building. A small sliver of sunlight cuts through the clouds illuminates his face and I notice the heavy sheen of sweat on his furrowed brow. He clears his throat obnoxiously, stares at the podium where his notes lie, and begins to speak. His voice is hoarse from what sounds like nights of unrest. "Good afternoon, citizens of District 3. I am here today to speak to you on behalf of the Capitol."

Anxious murmurs echo through the crowd as Harney clears his throat again to quiet them. "Ahem, excuse me, Citizens," he continues between nervously short, gasping breaths. "In response to the Rebellion of the thirteen districts of Panem, the Capitol has issued a few repercussions and punishments to convey the impact of the devastation the Rebels caused. To start, District 13 has been obliterated."

More shocked and anxious murmuring. My mother's bony and calloused fingers tighten around the back of my hand. I notice a flock of geese flying in a v-shape towards the Justice Building ,but as soon as they reach the gargantuan stone and marble building, one of the geese starts to disband from the group and lags behind the rest. _District 13 is like that goose_, I think. _And soon, the rest of the flock—the rest of us—will fall apart._

Harney's raspy voice breaks my train of thought. "Secondly, there will be no further contact with the other districts. Each district will only be able to communicate with the Capitol. The Peacekeepers will make sure to keep any infringement upon this rule from occurring.

"Lastly, to forever remind the districts of the fact that for every Capitol citizen who died in the Rebellion, two Rebels died, each district will be required to annually submit two 'tributes;' one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Their respective tributes will compete against the others in a fight to the death until one tribute is left and crowned a victor," he says frankly, as though getting through the horrible message he's just given us will soften the blow. Yes, we are all silent. But only out of disbelief. Disbelief that our mayor could so easily resign our district to this fate. But he doesn't have children, or any family for that matter. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone to live for, to love, to protect. Someone to lose. All he's ever lived for is power over District 3.

"The victor of the competition, which is hereby named the 'Hunger Games,' will receive unlimited riches and food, which, as you all know, are quite scarce nowadays. He or she will also mentor future tributes as well as serve as a reminder that no one can overcome the Capitol; the Capitol simply endows one with luxury and privilege."

And this is the end of his speech. He dismisses himself, and without further adieu, the peppy click-clack of platform heels pattering on the stage let us all know that a Capitol representative has been sent to begin the first year of the Hunger Games. I take in her appearance; aqua-colored wig, powder blue skin, and impossible attire that only someone who is completely insane or from the Capitol would choose to wear. Maybe she's both.

She whips the microphone in front of her face excitedly. "Hello, District 3, and welcome to the Reaping of the 1st Annual Hunger Games! My name is Aggie Aester, and I will be your District Representative. Bear with me, I'm new at this thing," she jokes, giving us a crazed but exhilarated smile. In response, we all stare at her wordlessly—still in shock over what has just taken place—but despite our lack of enthusiasm, she goes on. "Well, then, let's get to it. The girls will go first. Each girl in District 3 between the ages of twelve and eighteen's name has been entered into this little bowl," she taps the glass bowl with folded slips of white paper inside it lightly with her freakishly long, blue fingernails, "and I will draw one slip of paper with a name on it. The girl whose name I draw will be the female tribute from this District, and likewise with the boys."

With that, Aggie dips her hands slowly and carefully into the bowl and snatches up a piece of paper. She unfolds the sheet of paper for what seems like a millennium, muttering slight comments of "Oh, I'm just so excited!" and "I can't wait to see who it is!" into the microphone. I wonder if she knows that we can hear her thrill over picking which one of us dies. Abruptly, she reads the name in her thick Capitol accent. "Marjissa Werth!"

The crowd parts with sighs of sadness to reveal a tall, slender girl. Agonized wails come from her mother who desperately grips onto her child's arm. The girl gently shakes the sobbing woman off of her bravely while keeping her focus on Aggie. My eyes move from Marjissa to the screen in front of the Justice Building, which broadcasts her face on national television. She is beautiful in an odd and unique way, but is easily identifiable as a District 3 girl with her dark, wavy brown hair, statuesque build, and straight nose. As she strides onto the stage, I watch her close her eyes as to keep from breaking down and crying. Crying would make her a bigger target; she would be seen as weak by other stronger tributes. Once she opens her eyes, all sign of emotion in her face are lacking. Smart move.

Aggie claps and kicks her heel a little but almost loses her balance, which makes us all laugh. "Yes, well," she starts, trying to shake off embarrassment. "It's time for the boy's ticket."

This phrase sends chills of unease up my spine as she dips her hand into a different bowl this time. Thousands and thousands of names. This small, virtually useless bowl holds all of our futures and determines whether we live or die.

She draws out a name and reads it quickly. "Kellen Bolt."

It takes a few seconds to register that the name she drew was mine. The only time I finally understand what is happening is by hearing the deafening and helpless cries of my mother and Ryder screaming out, "I volunteer! I volunteer for Kellen Bolt! Take me instead."

Aggie raises an eyebrow suspiciously and then delivers him the hard-hitting news. "How old are you? Twentysomething? You're not allowed to volunteer. You must be between twelve and eighteen years old."

Ryder pushes his way to the front of the crowd, which gives its own murmurs of dissent as he says, "God, woman, he's just fifteen! He's a _kid_!"

I breathe in deeply like Marjissa and accept my fate. "No, Ryder. This is my cross to bear. I'm doing this." I have resigned to my death. As I push Ryder and my sobbing mother aside and step onto the stage, I realize that what I've done cannot be reversed. I am fighting to the death. I will take away innocent people's lives. I might even die myself. But as I look at the faces in the crowd, I know that I have all of District 3 on my side.

I'm not alone in this battle.


	2. Chapter 2: Cicero

I will have to kill the girl sitting directly across from me; the one I've cared for and known for so long. The one I grew up with. To survive, I will have to make the ultimate betrayal to both my parents and her.

I will have to kill my little sister.

She's only twelve, still silly and naïve. Still a child. Still so fresh and young, and such a sweet girl she is. She's weak and small and blonde and, unlike me, has no experience whatsoever with any weapons training. At least I know how to fight from years of training for the failed Rebellion. All she knows how to do is scream for help. If it's not going to be me who kills her, it's going to be somebody else, and I can't let her die.

"Cicero?" she ponders in concern, undoubtedly noticing me staring dazedly out of the train window. What are the odds of both a brother _and _a sister being chosen to have to fight each other to the death? It's too cruel and unfair, especially since I am six years older than her and thus six years stronger. Six years bigger. Six years more brutal.

"I'm fine, Lia," I lie, smiling weakly at her. "How are you doing?"

Aelia sighs and fiddles with her thumbs, "I don't really know. I'm kind of…afraid." A very slight tear rolls down her rosy cheek. I hate it when little kids cry.

I reach across the table over the gigantic amount of food on my plate and grab her miniscule hand. "Don't be afraid. You're gonna be okay."

"You don't know that."

I can't respond to her statement, because I know she's right. I can't be sure that anything will or will not happen to her, but what I can be sure of is that I will do anything I can to protect her. If it means killing other tributes so that she can survive, then so be it. "As long as I'm around," I say, patting the top of her hand, "You'll be okay."

Aelia withdraws herself and leans back into her seat, drawing her knees up to her chest. This is the first time I really notice how small she is. She's short but also unusually thin for a District 2 kid. The people from the first four districts are typically better-fed than those of the lesser districts, but ever since the Rebellion, none of us have had sufficient nutrients. It really shows on her, with her bony knees and lanky frame. I push the remainder of food on my plate in front of her, but she refuses it.

"You eat," she says. "You need to maintain your strength."

I grab the fork and push around the potatoes so that they face her. "Eat your potatoes."

She forcefully shoves the plate back to me. "I'm too weak. It's not going to help me."

I jam the fork into the wooden table. "Aelia Rallant, eat the damn potatoes or I'll _make_ you eat them!" She flinches at my outburst, thinking it's just about her not eating the potatoes. But it's not just about the food. It's about the fact that she's giving up so quickly. I'm a fighter; I've always been a fighter, so it irritates me when someone I love decides to throw their life away so soon.

Our freakish, sunflower-yellow-haired Capitol escort rushes in from the next car over. "Hey, what's going on? Did you stab that table?" He cries accusingly, pointing to the fork that I jammed deeply into the mahogany table.

I smile sinisterly and grind the fork deeper into the fine wood, destroying the luxuries the Capitol exploits from the districts. "Sorry," I grin. "Just practicing for the Games."

He raises a bleached eyebrow at me and attempts to yank the utensil from the table, but fails miserably. He huffs and runs a hand through his hair, saying, "You've got it in there pretty deep."

"I'm pretty good with sharp things," I warn him, freeing the fork with ease and rising to go to bed. I notice that Aelia must've snuck out of the dining room during my little rebellion. She's quiet; she can use that in the Games.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Wait," he says. "My name is Julius." He pauses and takes a sharp breath, quietly saying, "I'm so sorry that both you _and _your sister have to…compete against each other."

Julius's declaration of apology startles me, and I step backwards a little. Someone from the Capitol…apologizing on its behalf? After everything that has just happened as far as the Rebellion, most of which had nothing to do with my district, District 2? All of this is just too confusing. "Sorry?" I question in surprise.

"Yes," he starts, slipping a small muffin into my shirtsleeve. "Your district has always been very loyal to the Capitol. It hurts me that we have to punish such a civilized and trustworthy district."

"Oh…" I trail off. I don't let him know that I still don't like him. That I don't like anything associated with the Capitol. Not even their mahogany tables.

"I'll tell you what; you're going to get quite a few sponsors, handsome and strong boy like you."

I cross my arms defensively. Though I don't mind being put on display, if it's for my looks, I'm against it. I'd much rather be feared. "What about for me killing everyone else?"

"That too," he smiles. "Sponsors come in handy if you need food or supplies. They are supposed to supply the money to get you anything you need in case desperation. The more sponsors you have—"

I interrupt him in annoyance. "The more stuff I get. Right. I know. What about my sister?"

Julius's smile falls immediately, and I know by his expression that he has no hope for her. That I'm the one he's rooting for. It implies that no one should be expecting much from Aelia's sponsors. "I…well, I'll see what I can do, since I'll be getting you both sponsors."

"That's not good enough!" I scream, throwing the delicately crafted muffin he gave me across the room. "It has to be both of us, or none!"

He sighs and pats my shoulder again. "Like I said, I'll see what I can do. Her sponsors depend on how well _she _gets them to like her."

I smack his hand from my arm and storm off into my room. How am I going to keep her alive? More importantly, how am _I _going to stay alive? If I'm not alive to protect her, no one else will, and I will have failed both Aelia and my family. I begin to recall what my father whispered to me in the last minutes before I boarded the train to the Capitol yesterday. "Don't let her starve," he said passionately, almost to the point of anger as he gripped my face. "And don't you dare let her die."

Don't let her starve. Don't let her die. Don't let her starve. Don't let her die.

My mind snaps to the present as I find myself staring out the window at a new scene rather than just the barren landscape I had been accustomed to seeing for the last few hours: the tall, immeasurably high and grandiose buildings of the Capitol. I take in the buildings with a sick sense of awe. While we were dying in the Rebellion from starvation and war casualties, they were here crafting beautiful and strange buildings and perfecting their fashion-designing "skills." Gotta at least give them credit for rebounding so quickly.

We arrive in the train station as an odd crowd of eccentrically-dressed Capitol citizens gathers around the train. From the dining room, I hear Julius's excited cry of "Mr. and Miss Rallant, come greet the crowd!" Reluctantly, I fake a smile and step into the dining room to find Aelia already waving out the open window and making friends. And then it hits me. Maybe she does have something to be afraid of. She's always been very personable, so why can't she use that now when she needs it to get sponsors? How clever this charismatic little girl really is.

I smile genuinely for the first time in a while as we exit the train to go to the Remake Center. Protecting her may not be that hard. She's got quick wits and everyone loves her. Even my parents love her more than they love me. They were willing to sacrifice me, their oldest son, to keep her alive. "Don't let her starve. Don't let her die."

The blow of the realization of my parents' wish nearly knocks the wind out of me and almost sends me flying back into the train. My father didn't just mean to keep Aelia safe from the other tributes. He meant that if she and I are the last two tributes in the arena, let her live.

_I'm _supposed to die.


	3. Chapter 3: Ryenne

I'm dying.

Well, not literally. But with each hair ripped from its tiny follicle in my leg, it feels like a thousand burning needles are being shoved through my skin. Why can't they just let me keep my leg hair? It's the only reminder I have of home—well, that and my thick eyebrows, which they have plucked and prodded until they were perfectly arched. When the pungent, fruity-smelling wax is applied onto the tender skin of my thigh, I sit up from the styling bench immediately and smack away the hand of the eager member of my styling team who has the nerve to try to cause me any more pain.

"I'm fine. No one is going to see that part of my body," I growl, still gripping her wrist.

The shocked look on her face—which, by the way, is implanted with whiskers and tattooed with cheetah spots—turns into angered ridicule as she smugly says, "You never know."

To my dismay, the woman slaps the wax-covered strip onto my inner thigh at lightning speed and wrenches the poor hairs from their little homes. Just like how I was wrenched from mine.

I hate the Capitol. They took me away from everything I loved; my lush, green woods, my parents, my small, ratty bed that is simply a mattress on the floor. My curly black leg hair. But the difference is that District 12 is what I've known all my life. I don't know what the Capitol has thrown me into: their ridiculous and opulent fashions, the way they want me to look and speak, and the violence that I will inevitably have to face in the arena. I'm not a violent person; all I know how to do is hunt small game like rabbits or squirrels. I can't even shoot with a bow; that's my brother Jeremy's specialty. I'm fast and can kill small things with my hands, but I won't stand a chance compared to the other kids who've at least been able to practice some fighting skills. Nobody—probably not even my parents—will try to be my sponsor.

I stand alone in the quiet of the private Remake Room, where I was told to wait unclothed for my stylist. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I see someone who is not me, someone that the Capitol has already remade and molded to their image. My nails are filed perfectly and painted coal- black to resemble my district's export. My raven hair falls straight and evenly down my back with neither a hair out of place nor a single split end. Black and gray eyeshadow stretches all the way up to my brow bone, and my lips are a subtle light pink. But despite all of the physical altering, there's still one thing the Capitol can't change, and that's who I am on the inside. I am still the same, lanky, hotheaded Ryenne Fairbridge who can't make a quality roast chicken to save her life. I'm still me.

The door opens with a snap, and I immediately whip my head around to face my stylist, who introduces herself as Juno. She smiles and reaches out to shake my hand, but instead I cross my arms unabashedly across my naked bosom and growl, "Let's not talk. You do what you came here to do, and I'll do what I came here to do."

This takes Juno by surprise as she raises a razor-thin, arched eyebrow, the shiny, rich-brown skin pulling tightly across her face. She is small, probably about five feet tall and thin as a tree branch. I stare at her and wonder if she ever eats; if, like all of the stories our parents have told us about what Capitol citizens do, she gorges and feasts until every last parcel of food fills her tiny stomach and then she purges it with fancy drinks to stay thin. Does she know how we starve? Does she know that some days, Jeremy and I (as well as the rest of our family) have to eat the scraps that Old Hartley's filthy pigs reject?

No, she doesn't, which I realize as she taps a wispy fingertip on her plump lips and says candidly, "Look at you! You're all skin and bones. My God, we are going to have fix this before the Games or… by President Caverhorst, I'll quit my job before I get _fired_ because of you!"

My eyes subconsciously narrow themselves into slits so small that I can barely see. I sink my teeth into my tongue to keep from biting the head off of this woman, but instead of obliterating her right now, I swallow my pride and grit my teeth. "You can fix it…"

Juno paces around the circular platform upon which I stand, the sound of her flat shoes barely clicking on the linoleum floor. I stare at my pedicured feet as she insults me. "You people from the lower districts are such heathens. Someone needs to teach you all manners," she remarks, stopping in her tracks to face me. "But you're right, I can. I made a padded costume just in case. One should always be prepared for the worst."

The worst. I'm the worst. Well, I can't really deny that I'm not a looker, and I certainly don't have a significant amount of physical strength, but both of those inconveniences are because I've starved for a few years now. Blame it on the Rebellion. Blame it on the oppressive Capitol.

Juno retrieves a mock-miner's hat, knee-high leather boots, and a tiny pickaxe in one hand. I begin to think that this isn't the worst she could do to me, but as I notice what she's carrying in the other arm (its puffy skirt completely concealing the upper half of her body), I realize that I am totally mistaken. She holds the heavily-padded atrocity up to my body and I am utterly appalled at the sight of what I will be wearing. The dress is one-shouldered, with stalagmite-resembling studding reaching from the thick shoulder strap all the way across the brown, padded, form fitting torso. There are hideous, long brown wrist cuffs I am to wear, but nothing compares to the repulsiveness of the bottom half of the outfit. The skirt part of the dress is scandalously short and blue, fading to red and brown as it nears my hips. It's so puffy that I feel as though I might float away like a cloud of coal dust. Float from the chariot all the way back home to Twelve. How I would love that.

When I am finished being probed relentlessly by Juno, I am guided to the lumpy mass of flaming black metal that is my chariot, which I guess is supposed to be a metaphor for coal. Pitch black, and lumpy. I've about had it with the stupid coal symbolism.

I almost throw myself into the seat before I realize that there's another person sitting in the spot. It's the boy tribute from my district—oh, what's his name again? Ash? He gently grabs my waist to keep me from slipping off the steps and hoists me into the neighboring spot, giving a soft, deep chuckle. "You 'kay?" he asks, still smiling. I note that he's still holding onto my waist with one hand.

Shoving him away from me, I fold my arms crossly and grumble, "Yeah. Stop laughing at me." A fiery blush rises on my cheeks as I stare at my weathered boots and not at the boy who just nearly saved my life.

I can sense his grin grow larger and wider. "You'll owe me for this in the arena," he jokes. "And my name's Ash."

The blush is growing hotter. "I know, I heard our escort announce it."

"Did you?"

"To be honest," I mutter. "I wasn't paying attention. I really didn't care." There. That should wipe the stupid beam from his face. To be sure, I add, "Still don't."

To my dismay though, Ash chuckles again. "You're something else, Ryenne," he teases. "It's funny to watch you get so heated."

At the mention of my name, I whip my head up to see the speaker, and I become aware that I never really got a good look at him in the first place. Ash is wearing the same costume as me but in male form; same hard hat, same pickaxe, but with a brown, fitted, long sleeved shirt that shows his defined muscles and pants having the same color scheme as my skirt.

He is kind of attractive—okay, _really _attractive. He looks like a typical Seam kid—like me—with his chin-length, wavy black hair parted and slicked back, and lovely olive skin. What stands out to me, though, are his black-eyeshadow-framed, dark brown eyes, a sight that is highly unusual in Twelve. On average, people from District 12 have either gray or blue eyes, depending on whether or not they are from the Seam or Merchants. But brown eyes…That's something refreshingly new and different. Warm. Kind. Almost…friendly.

Another smile hints at the corners of Ash's lips as I realize that he's caught me checking him out at such a close proximity. I sense my face once again turning red and I quickly turn away from him, embarrassed and angry with myself, as the horses drawing our chariot slowly move forward.

I distract myself from momentary humiliation by watching all the tributes make their ways into their chariots. We must've been really early, considering that the other tributes are just now arriving at their chariots. I watch them load themselves district by district, and the procession begins impeccably fast, each of the tributes' names and faces being broadcast on the huge screen in the promenade. The kids from One are dressed up like Greek gods, but they take on the persona of their costumes and it radiates in their vicious, white-toothed smiles, as well as the eagerness with which they wave to and salute the screaming crowd. The boy—his name is Spekter—is especially terrifying; he is large and extremely muscular, whereas the girl, Marble, is smaller, pretty, and delicate. But from the malevolent glint in her eye, I can tell that behind the fresh face might lurk something more evil than in Spekter. I shudder as the screens continue to broadcast the two waving.

As the event draws on, Ash comments on the ridiculous costumes of the other tributes, but I ignore his mocking remarks and focus on the present. Focus on here and now. Focus on trying to size up the competition.

The jolt of the chariot moving sends me flying back into my seat, but, once again, Ash yanks me up and keeps me from tumbling backwards. Except this time, when his hand lingers on my arm, my whole body tingles with exhilaration and adrenaline as we fly forward at record speed. He slides his fingertips down my forearm and holds two of my fingers with two of his own, all while staring straight ahead at the mass of outlandish Capitol Citizens and waving with a devilishly crooked smile. I am comforted by my fingers in his because it oddly reminds me of home. Something that's from Twelve and is tangible to me, something that I can hold on to. Well, at least for the moment. I resist the urge to pull away from him because he is the only thing keeping me from running away from the chariot right now; I hate being in the limelight. It makes me feel so out of place.

So I smile and wave too, my whole body secretly shaking with the adrenaline rush. The crowd cheers wildly, but not as loudly as it did for the kids from the upper districts. I guess I know for sure now where I _won't _be getting sponsors.

As we reach the end of our three-minute journey, the small, nervous tremors have turned into full-on shaking, and I realized that my entire hand has found itself clutching to Ash's for dear life. He looks at me enthusiastically, face still ablaze from the thrill of being on public display. But my smile has long fallen since I remembered that we're in the real world again, and that Ash is just some stranger that will have to be killed. He's not my friend or any other variation on the word. I can't think of him like another human being. He's an animal capable of killing, just like all of the rest of the tributes. When I reclaim my hand from his, I have already renounced any chance at developing a friendship with him. Renounced any trust I had in him, any notion that we are anything more than partner tributes.

He gives me a wordless, confused glance. "I don't do friends," I respond. "Especially not when my life is at stake." As I burst out of the chariot to the elevator that is supposed to take me to my floor, I leave behind any trace of humanity I had before tonight.

I, too, am an animal, and I will do anything it takes to survive.


	4. Chapter 4: Adalind

The tears pour from my eyes as I stand on the balcony outside the District 7 tributes' common room, my arms outstretched, open, and threatening to do the thing I've wanted to do ever since the beginning of the Games. Threatening to catapult me over the edge of the railing into the blue-black sky that reflects the city below me. I am audible now, my distressed wails rebounding off of the space surrounding me. I move to push myself off from the railing, to cease my own existence, when suddenly, a gruff voice comes from behind me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice says sternly. I turn sharply, inhaling so fast that I begin to cough. Once the watery tears clear, I see a male, more man than boy, smooth cheeks and chin contrasting his strong build and well-crafted jaw.

I squint a little bit, and wipe my face on my cotton t-shirt. "What's it to you?"

He smirks in sarcasm, huffing a bit at what my apparent stupidity. "There's a force field just past that railing," he gestures, moving closer to me. "Knock you right out and send you flying back up here. It's meant to keep people like _you _from committing suicide."

"How would you know?" I snap, tears flowing again but this time more forcefully.

A pained look crosses his face, his teal eyes bulging in retaliating anger as he shouts, "I've _tried_!"

The air suspends around us for long second, my heart beating like a crazed, off-beat drummer is slamming on it. How could he have been here before? He seems to know what I'm thinking, because he explains his outburst. "They captured me. Me and a few other people in my squad. There were five of us. We were all from Seven, all sent here on an intelligence mission to find out where Caverhorst was going to attack next."

I am speechless, my mouth gaping open as a small, choked sound comes from the back of my throat.

"These used to be torture chambers. They tortured me here, sometimes on this very balcony. All I could hope for was to die. And when I got the chance," he says, dilated pupils focusing blankly into the bright night. "I jumped."

"I'm so sorry," I whisper gingerly. He walks to me and assists me over the railing, back onto the balcony. Back into reality.

He lifts me over the rail, and it is now when I can see how much larger he is than me. How much taller and stronger, but how broken he really is. Despite my reluctance for him to continue his story, he goes on. "They released me after they saw that I was 'insane.' It's funny, the things people do to avoid dealing with crazy people. But that's probably why I was reaped. Because they couldn't let a rebel get by with knowing Caverhorst's secrets. They couldn't let the sole survivor of Squad 721 escape, because it showed the Capitol's true weakness. It was a power play."

I look up at his moonlit face and smile weakly. "Well, you've stopped me from killing myself, if that makes you feel better."

He reflects my smile, but brighter. Happier. "Yeah. And you're not the only one here who is crazy, if that makes _you_ feel better."

Surprisingly, a high, clear laugh escapes my mouth. "That's funny. And my name's Adalind, but you can call me Addie." I reach out to shake his hand.

"Jack Grover," he says softly, giving my hand a firm shake. "And I like that nickname, Addie."

I flush a little bit. "Thanks, Jack."

Jack guides me inside, hand on my neck, to the room I claimed earlier. Room 721. _721_, I think. _It's not a coincidence._ We stop just outside the barely-cracked door of the room, but Jack's breaths get heavier and heavier until I'm sure he's hyperventilating. His hand drops from my neck and reaches to his own, and suddenly he's stroking it frantically. He's seen the room number, and he must be having a flashback. I stare at him, not quite knowing what to do, but grabbing his hands before he begins to choke himself.

"Jack!" I cry, but it's no use. He's still shaking, still violently stroking his neck despite my efforts to get him to stop. "Jack, please! You're scaring me!"

In a split moment, he stops. His breathing quiets and he looks down at me, into my eyes. I see the dumbfounded but worried look I wear reflected in his irises as he slowly raises a hand to his extremely short hair. Jack's head leans forward into mine, and I almost think he's going to kiss me when his hot breath grazes my lips and cheeks, whispering, "I think you should go now. I'm sorry, you shouldn't have seen this."

With that, he pulls away abruptly and retreats into his room, Room 722, without looking back once. I stare at the empty space where he once was, wondering what I would've done if he had kissed me. I probably would've just stood there like an idiot, not knowing how to respond to my first kiss. No, I would've run away, like I do from everything else. Maybe even have run right off that balcony into the force field, because I would've been in such shock that _any_ guy was interested in me that it would take me being knocked unconscious to understand if this was simply a wacked-out dream or reality. I'm not necessarily the prettiest girl around, and am certainly not the funniest or the most charming, so what would make someone like Jack want to kiss me? I must be disillusioning myself.

I decide not to think about it, to go to bed and rest. To try to forget about how I will die in the Games. How distraught my parents will be. How they'll have to clean out my room in our small, rustic cabin. How I will just simply cease to exist, just a dead child that nobody can embrace. Just a reminiscent thought like the broken wings of a Mockingjay we rebels once knew as the symbol of hope.

This whole sleeping thing isn't working out so well for me.

By the time morning comes, I've gotten no sleep at all and I remind myself that today is group training. It's the only day to practice what little skill I have with an axe, and learn new skills before the Games. Reluctantly, I roll out of bed and dress in a black jumpsuit with the number of my district embroidered on the short sleeves that is hanging from the outside of my door. I wonder how it got there, but shrug it off as I slide on the standard-issue, dull, black combat boots. Boots. At least that's something I'm used to wearing back in Seven.

I trudge to the breakfast table, where I notice Jack is already sitting as well as our District stylists and our escort, who's name I haven't bothered to learn because I've been so consumed with my own depression. The television murmurs softly in the background as I slide into the end seat of the table, sitting right next to Jack, who is clad in his own jumpsuit, and directly across from our somewhat-normal-looking escort, who plays with her oatmeal. She doesn't look like she wants to be here anymore than I do. In fact, she looks like she might just hate her job.

I sneak a peek at Jack, who doesn't even bother to acknowledge me and instead continues to stare at the empty bowl that lies in front of him. "Hey, Jack," I say quietly, trying to catch his attention. I get silence in return, so I speak louder. "Did you sleep well?"

"I don't sleep," he says, now lifting his spoon to examine it with what looks like total engrossment. So the spoon is more interesting than me.

"Oh. Me neither," I respond softly, but hurt, not even glancing at my own bowl of oatmeal. "Are you okay? I mean…After what happened last night?"

Jack angrily drops the spoon back into the bowl, eyes still downcast. "I don't want to talk about it," he snarls through gritted teeth. "Nothing happened last night."

My eyebrows furrow at this and I hate that my voice is as small as a young child's as I whine, "But you and me—"

At this, he rises and shoves his chair back, finally recognizing my presence. Jack growls at me with the fury of what can only be described as a feral animal. "_Nothing_ happened between you and me! Understand?"

I shrink at his size, at his anger. "Y-yes. Yes," I whisper in alarm. "I understand."

He storms back to his room, into a place where only Jack can go and any trespassers will likely have their throats ripped out and devoured. I decide that I quite like my throat where it is.

While he leaves, I can only wonder what horrors he has seen and experienced and why he is reacting so strangely to my offers of friendly affection. I can only hope that I haven't created my first enemy in the Games.


	5. Chapter 5: Caspian

The heavy trident is familiar in my hand. Except the one I hold now is much nicer than my old one back home; this one is clearly meant for a far deadlier purpose than to just to spear fish. It is made pure titanium, rather than District 4's palm wood, and has a small curve on the shaft that is tapered for the user's dominant hand to grip. It has a few buttons too, none of which I bother to press because I already know the basics of how to use the trident. It is something foreign, and yet something totally common for me. I stare at the weapon in silent appreciation for a few moments until I violently spear the practice dummy in half.

Glancing up at the so-called "Gamemakers'" tables, I realize that their idle chatter has ceased and that they are all staring at me, at the trident I twirl with ease back under my arm. At the dummy who, if it were a real person, would be annihilated in the matter of seconds my reaction time required to sever it in half. I glimpse momentarily at the dummy and focus my attention back to the hushed Gamemakers. "If that were a person, he'd be dead," I say humorously, stating the obvious.

A voice comes from the back of the throng of Gamemakers. "What else can you do?"

A sly smirk places itself on my lips and I respond, "Nets. I can weave nets. And I'm also good at distance throwing with a trident. Want me to show you?"

The Head Gamemaker, a small, snivelly young man with round glasses, rises from his seat and backs away slowly towards the generous feast on the table. "Actually, I think we've seen enough for today, Mr. Lynch. Thank you," he assures, voice quivering a bit as he says so. I've scared the living daylights out of him. Good. I should get a pretty good score.

The scores for individual training are numbers between one and twelve, one being the absolute worst and twelve being almost unattainably exceptional. The scores will help viewers and sponsors to determine if you've got a shot at being a winner, and then they'll send you stuff. Like food and shit. I found out this morning from my escort that the scores are supposed to be based on physical strengths and the measurement of survival skills, but that likeability plays a huge factor in how high one's score ends up being. So I'm good at netting. So I am just a tad excellent with a trident. So I'm a little funny. I should get a pretty good score or else. Actually, "or else" _nothing_. I can't really do anything about it but complain and kill some kids. So then I guess that's what I'll do if I get a low score.

Complain and kill some kids. Not a bad life.

I smile again and exit the room, passing the obviously anxious girl tribute from my district, Mina Reid, whose name I actually bothered to learn because she's kind of hot with her copper-colored hair and inviting brown eyes. But she looks too much like a little kid, too much like my little sister Ionia; the only features that separate the two are their ages (Ionia is younger) and Mina's red hair. I've got to ignore that comparison when I kill her, I think.

Mina taps me softly on the shoulder. "Hey, how was it?" she questions, giving me a look that is something like hope mixed with severe nervousness.

"Great. You're on next. Good luck, Skipper," I lie, shrugging her hand gently off of my shoulder and nonchalantly strolling away. In District 4, the nickname "Skipper" is a term of endearment used for people you're very close to, people you trust. It's probably a little much, but I can't really crush her spirits yet; she has to think I'm on her side at least until I can off her in the arena.

I'm strangely very happy, so high above the world that no one can touch me. No worries, no cares. Just thinking about what life will be like when I get that title and all of the benefits that come with it: "Caspian Lynch, Victor of the 1st Annual Hunger Games." The food and upper-class housing is a plus, but the other, implied benefits are _prime_. The fame, bringing pride to your district, the girls… Everything will be mine for the taking when I kill that last tribute—

Having entered the narrowest part of the hallway, I slam right into the back of some huge guy, who turns around and glares at me like he wants to roast me over a fire until I'm crispy and eat me. "Watch it, Four!" he roars, towering over me until all I can see is this boy with his ridiculously enormous muscles. It takes a moment to register that he is the male tribute from District 1. My mind, sharp as a bullet, processes the information associated with him that I saw on the recap of the chariots last night. _Name: Spekter Hunt. Age: 17. Height: About 6'3" Strengths: Unknown ._

I glare at Spekter long after my mental assessment of him until he shoves my chest. "What are you looking at?" he grunts angrily.

"Your face," I snap back. "It's pretty damn ugly, too, in case you were wondering."

Granted this isn't entirely true, but it's quite hilarious to watch his face turns beet red, and I swear that the tufts of cropped black hair on his head are sticking up further and further like the quills of a porcupine. "I'll kill you," he threatens, moving to bump his chest against mine as an animalistic show of his strength over me. "And then I'll kill the redhead you came with."

I'm not afraid; I don't fear anything or anyone. I push him away from me and laugh, "You're not gonna do _shit_, 'cause by the time I'm done with you, you're going to be in two separate pieces." I grin maniacally and point at him as though to challenge him to a fight. "Try me."

An extended, tense beat of silence passes between us until Spekter breaks out into a strange smile. "You're funny, kid. You and I should team up; no one could stop us."

"Team?" I ask. "Me? Ha, no. I don't play well with others."

He begins to move towards the open elevator, but just before entering, he turns back to me and says, "You'll do anything you have to in order to survive."

He's right. I never really thought about it, but the more I consider teaming up with some other people, the more I realize that it may just be the smartest idea anyone other than me has come up with. I'll pick the strongest, the smartest, the best, the most well-fed. The upper-district kids; the tributes from One, Two, and us from Four—maybe even the ones from Three if they weren't so dang weird. All they know how to in District 3 do is techy stuff, skills that might not even be possible to use in a nature-themed arena. But if we all team together, we can eliminate the other "competition," and the rest will be a piece of cake. Then I'll just kill my "team" and I'll get that title. I'll be a victor. In a split second, I sprint to the elevator and jam my foot in the closing door to get it back open.

Spekter raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, muscles bulging past the point of normality. "What?"

"I've changed my mind," I wheeze. "Let's play the hell out of this Game."

He nods smiles menacingly, probably imagining the deaths of every one of his victims. "They want a show? We'll give them a freaking Field Day."


End file.
